The Woman with the Pale Mask
by KylaBosch
Summary: In the South, Sansa Stark was known as the 'Stranger's Maiden'; a woman whose beauty was so rare that even death could not resist her. In the North she was the 'Lady of Winter'; a maiden whose love for her family was so strong that not even the Others could withstand her. Ser Sandor Clegane, a renowned knight serving house Lannister soon learns the truth of the mask she wears.


**Disclaimer:** All of this belongs to Mr. GRRM.  
**Warnings:** Violence, language, dark themes. VERY AU!  
**Author's note** This was written for **maracuyakongeen**.  
**Prompt:** Sansa is the one who has grown up with those ugly facial burns, and Sandor hasn't - Gregor was never born or died soon after his birth! Sandor has become a lord and a triumphant knight. So at first, he only wants the Little Bird for her high social status. But that changes after a while...  
**Beta Reader:** A huge thank you goes to **onborrowedwings** for taking time out of her crazy busy schedule to go over this for me! I would be lost without you girl! =D  
**Additional warning:** Sandor will be OC by comparison to his person in the books. I have tried to keep him fierce and brash but due to the prompt requested he will be a bit more idealistic.

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Sansa Stark came to the grand tourneys held in Kingslanding out of respect and love for her family. She also came in an attempt to ease rising tensions between her house and their nemesis the Lannisters. Had it not been for her father's valiant death on the battlefield during the last of the Winter Wars, Sansa was certain the two warring houses would have destroyed themselves utterly. Nevertheless with Eddard Stark's death at the hands of Ser Barristan Selmy, King Robert Baratheon lost his lust for wolves' blood. So a fragile truce was formed between the lions and the wolves, and the war was brought to an abrupt end.

That was several years ago, since then much had changed, much remained the same. Her elder brother Robb first heir to Winterfell had succumbed to the winter fever the year she was born. Her cousin Jon Snow now led the Night's Watch as Night Commander. Rickon would soon come of age to rule Storm's End alongside his betrothed, turned wife, Shireen Baratheon. Bran had long since departed north of the wall with Jojen and Meera Reed in the hopes of further studying his gifts of green sight. Arya, though well suited for leadership, preferred to train with swords as Lady Brienne's squire, rather than practice at games of court, leaving Sansa as the best suited heir to the great northern fortress.

At twenty and two years of age, Sansa Stark was already regarded as a spinster by southron standards. However, Sansa Stark was no ordinary noblewoman; the promise of ruling the North through her lineage was a temptation few men could resist, despite her age. Yet for all her potential suitors, the 'Lady of Winter' as the Northern small folk lovingly called her, remained unwed. Not one of the many lords or Knights who vied for her hand in marriage was considered worthy of the North, so she politely refused them all.

As women garbed in the finest silks, and men clad in equally wealthy garments danced, Sansa watched on in silence. She could almost hear her mother's words whispering in her ears warning her that time was running out.

_Sansa, you must find a suitable husband, and soon. Winter is fast approaching child, and our people will soon look to their lord for guidance and protection._

The maiden was no fool; she knew no man would ever give their heart to a lady who was nothing short of perfect. Had it not been for the deep burn scars that covered the left side of her face, Sansa Stark might have been the beauty about which songs were written. It was a truth she would never know; such fairy tales of noble knights and handsome princes come to steal her heart, had long since faded away like dew in the morning sun. Even the elegant lacquered weirwood mask she wore could not hide the full extent of the damage. Where once there were locks of fiery red hair, there was now puckered, pale flesh. While scarves covered the worst of it, Sansa could not ignore the long unapologetic stares it encouraged. Despite being in a crowd of familiar faces, the young lady felt every bit like a lone wolf in the midst of vipers. Had it not been for her sister's promise to keep her company, a sacrifice in and of itself, for Arya loathed the celebrations that followed a good tourney, Sansa would have long since retired for the evening. However, the hour was late and she was more than ready to depart for her chambers.

'Bugger me; a wolf in the lions' den. Guess the day was not wholly wasted.'

The man's voice was gravelly and rough, reminding Sansa of a pit of snarling dogs. Immediately drawn out of her thoughts, the maiden lamented the absence of her sister. Arya had briefly slipped off to rescue her mentor Lady Brienne from a certain kingslayer who was rather determined to get her attention whether she wanted to give it or not.

'My pardons, Ser, I do not believe we have met,' she politely answered as she met his gaze. The knight was not what most would refer to as comely. His features were too sharp and hard to be pleasing by southron standards. His long hair, black as night, and his eyes of slate grey gave the warrior an appearance better suited for the North than the South. Upon taking in his features Sansa promptly realized that she needed no further introductions. Ser Sandor Clegane, or _The Hound_ as he was better known throughout Westeros, looked every bit the fierce champion she had witnessed throughout the tourneys' events earlier that day. Standing a full head taller than even the tallest man in the royal hall, Sansa could not deny the inkling of truth in the rumours that spoke of House Clegane being the descendants of giants. The eldest surviving son of a minor house, Ser Sandor had earned the respect of his colleagues for his ferocity in battle and fierce loyalty to house Stark's former enemies: the Lannisters. He was equally renowned for his brutal honesty in court, a trait that most neither appreciated, nor understood.

'Ser Sandor Clegane, or The Hound, if it pleases you, my lady,' he rasped. Recalling her manners, Sansa offered her hand as was expected of her. With an almost shy smile the hulking knight bowed to kiss her hand. _So begins the game,_ Sansa sadly mused.

_'A woman's courtesies are her greatest armour,'_ Septa Mordane would have reminded Sansa had she been witness. She too, was long gone, slaughtered like so many other innocents during the fateful 'Long Night of Swords'. The winter war that followed had lasted until well into the arrival of spring, several years prior. Had it not been for King Robert's need to end the war between his Queen's house and the Starks, the two houses would have destroyed themselves utterly. Sansa also knew that she was the reason behind the war that had consumed so many innocent lives. Quickly, she buried the thought, knowing all too well that mourning the past would not bring back the dead.

'May I congratulate you on your victory in the Royal tourneys, Ser. My sister, Arya, speaks highly of your skills. I am told that you have been the uncontested Champion for some time,' she noted. The man seemed more embarrassed than proud at the compliment.

'Spare me your empty flatteries, my lady. Nothing heroic in fighting gnats,' he grumbled. Furrowing her brow, Sansa briefly glanced away as she silently prayed for her sister's return. Arya was far better at discussing fighting manoeuvres than she could ever hope to be.

'I meant no offence, Ser. I thought you fought rather gallantly,' she politely said. The Hound gave a harsh laugh before finishing the last of his goblet of wine.

'Some septa trained you well, girl. You sound like those colourful birds from the summer isles. Chirping pretty words, whether you mean them or not,' he rasped. 'What else did they teach you, little bird? Do you sing too?' he mocked.

Frightened by his forward and mocking demeanour Sansa instinctively stepped back in concern. She knew men could be unpredictable when they were in their cups. 'Please, Ser, state your business and be gone. I have no quarrel with you,' she quietly stammered, overly aware of his close proximity and his fearsome reputation.

'Drunk as a dog, damn me,' he murmured, shaking his head with a look that could have passed for embarrassed. Sansa did not deny his words; instead she politely waited for a more proper answer. The silence that fell between them was long and awkward. Certain he was finished with her, Sansa turned back to watched the nobles dance and mingle; her thoughts returning to the North. Just when she was certain he had left her side, Ser Sandor broke the silence. 'You came south, looking for someone worthy of your hand in marriage,' he stated in blunt tones.

_So that is the way of it then,_ Sansa thought sadly to herself; more promises, empty flattery and inevitable awkwardness of having to reject another suitor who foolishly sought power and coin. Winterfell though grand in size was neither wealthy, nor bountiful by southron standards. Their greatest treasure was the steaming water vents and the hot springs which fed the winter gardens built around them. In the south, where food, spices, water and supplies were plentiful it was of little worth. In the north, it was cherished above all else, for it meant life.

'I am flattered you should find me suited for courtship, My Lord, and I admire your courage,' she softly said, feeling suddenly weary and longing for nothing more than to retire to her chambers. If only Arya would return!

'Courage?' he asked.

'Does my mask not frighten you?' she queried. Surely the infamous Hound had heard all the tales surrounding her, and the mask she wore. The warrior stared at her in silence. Sansa could see he was struggling to make sense of her words; was she being sincere or was this some strange jape?

'I am a seasoned knight. Why would a bloody piece of carved wood frighten me?' he rasped in disbelief. Sansa's eyes drifted across the room where her sister stood chatting with the female knight, Lady Brienne. By Arya's side was a young man, whom she knew to be a squire as well. If Sansa recalled correctly the boy was undergoing training by the very man who stood attentively by her side. In the South, court politics were a favourite pastime and it left Sansa filled with a sense of trepidation at the possibility that Arya's distraction had been intentional. Overwhelmed by the possibility, and by the weight of her duty, Sansa felt as though she could no longer breathe. She was entirely unaware of the knight's hatred of such court games.

'If it pleases, My Lord, perhaps we should continue our conversation outside, where the air is fresh and the night is quiet,' she intoned. Ser Sandor nodded his ascent before collecting two goblets of wine from a passing maid servant. Offering a glass to her which she graciously accepted they stepped out onto one of the many balconies that overlooked the courtyards below.

The night sky was a heavy blanket of stars and the moon waxed crescent. A beautiful sight, one Sansa would have thoroughly enjoyed back home. Instead, she felt only envy at the shadows that danced to the braziers' flames just beyond their view; if only she could hide in them. 'Why do you seek the lands of Winterfell?' she asked, looking up to meet his gaze. It was the second time the knight looked almost sheepish. While the infamous Hound claimed he was not bothered by the rumours surrounding her marred features she could see he was awkward in her presence. The bitter irony was not lost on her.

'My grandmother was a wildling seer. Had the green sight, for true,' the knight carefully admitted. As he spoke those words, Sansa noted he could not meet her gaze. It was clear he was uncomfortable speaking of his heritage; in the south such truths were not looked upon kindly. 'It was my father's dream to return to the north, to make House Clegane a name known there,' he confessed, before taking a long drink of his wine.

'And you, Ser Sandor? What is your wish for the North?' Sansa politely asked. Taking a sip from her own goblet of wine, she struggled not to wince at its potency. Dornish red sour was an acquired taste. She would have given a year's worth of lemon cakes for a cup of her father's freshly brewed winter tea.

Sandor leaned over the balcony that overlooked Kingslanding far below. His expression was hidden by the shadows, yet Sansa could feel the intensity of his gaze as he studied her. 'When you look at me, girl, what you do you see?' he rasped.

'I see a gallant and brave knight,' she politely answered, uncertain what it was he desired in response. The knight gave a derisive snort as he shook his head.

'Such a bad liar. A dog can smell a lie you know. And you reek of it,' he growled. 'What you see is a swordsman of the Lannisters; a servant of your family's nemesis.' Sandor had the right of it, and yet it was not the entire truth. It had been several years since the war, but only a little over two years since their houses last fought on the battlefield. While both houses had extended their hands in peace, tensions still ran high. Where once there had been bad blood between their houses, Sansa no longer bore them ill will. She knew that hatred only begot more hatred. Far too many innocent lives had paid the price for vengeance; she would contribute to it no more.

'What's a Hound to do with lions I ask you?' he said, drawing her thoughts back to the present with a heavy sigh. 'I don't give a damn for power, land, or titles. I have all that I need right here. I just-' Sandor's voice trailed off as he silently shook his head. Sansa was too much a lady to further inquire of his private thoughts, despite knowing there was more on his mind. The knight gingerly reached out as though intending to caress the cheek of her wooden mask only to pause in mid action as though recalling his manners not a moment too soon.

'Tell me, little bird. Do you ever tire of wearing that piece of wood on your face?' Had it been anyone else, Sansa would have politely excused herself and sought Arya's company. However, there was no mockery, no disgust, or disdain in Ser Sandor's voice, only genuine curiosity. In the dark, Sansa could see something in his grey eyes that went beyond the dull shine of too much wine and it gave her the courage to speak. 'At home, in Winterfell, there is no need for me to wear it, Ser,' she softly admitted. 'Only in the South do I wear it to put people at ease.' Her cheeks burned at the confession.

'Bugger that! If your people can look upon your face, then so can I. Take off that mask of yours, girl, and let me see for myself what lies beneath,' he rasped in amusement. Sansa frowned at the man's blatant lack of respect.

'You forget yourself, Ser! You know not what you ask,' she said in hurt tones. This time he did not hesitate as he reached out to gently touch her wierwood mask.

'I am a warrior, a seasoned knight of some repute. I've fought more bloody battles than I can keep count. I have seen things no man should ever witness. There is nothing beneath that gods damned mask of yours that I need fear,' he growled. A breath later, and Sansa felt the cool autumn winds brush against the scars of her burned flesh.

Gasping in shock, the maiden instinctively moved to cover her face. 'Please Ser, I beg you please give me back my mask,' she pleaded as tears sprang to her eyes. Sansa could almost hear her sister's voice chastising her for being too trusting, for believing only the good in people. With her goblet promptly forgotten on the balcony's ledge, Sansa reached out with her free hand to claim the stolen relic. Sandor, far larger and taller than her, merely shook his head as he kept it out of her reach.

'I want you to look at me,' he rasped. Sansa merely shook her head as she fought back the burning tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

'I said look at me,' he pressed on, in more firm tones.

'You are no true -' Sansa began only to fall silent as the knight placed a large hand under her chin, forcing her to look up straight into his face. Closing her eyes, Sansa braced herself for the inevitable rejection that was certain to come.

In the north, Sansa had never feared her people's reaction to her marred flesh. Most had long since grown used to her burns and saw no need to draw attention to it. Ignorant to the harsh truths of the world, the maiden soon learned the hard way that she was not like most other young women her age. Her suitors, most southron knights, lords, and even princes were unaccustomed to what her people had long since accepted and were horrified by what they saw. Even the bravest were terrified and repulsed by the sight of her scars. On one such occasion there was even a man who was made ill for it. Not long after, Sansa received the pale lacquered Weirwood mask; a strange gift from an even stranger traveller whose face too was hidden beneath a mask of dark redwood. Since then the maiden sought never to remove it from her flesh when in the presence of strangers, for she could take no more pain.

Sansa's heart grew heavy with dread and anticipation, yet there were no gasps of horror to be heard, no muttered curses of fear, or the sound of heavy footsteps running away. Instead, she felt only the warmth of calloused fingers lightly caressing the soft cracks and craters of her scarred cheek. His touch was entirely unexpected; Sansa had not imagined a man as large as the Hound to be so gentle.

'You can open your eyes, little bird. There's nothing to fear, ' he murmured, his voice deep and gravelly like the sound of growling dogs in a pit. With great trepidation the young woman cautiously opened her eyes and met the Hound's watchful gaze. To her surprise there was no repulsion in his gaze, no disgust, no fear, nor pity either. The look he wore reminded Sansa a little of the way Arya would look upon her, with respect and admiration. There was something else in his eyes of ash, something she could not quite put a finger on. It was a mystery that neither could have anticipated, one that would take many months to solve.

'What did you expect? That I would turn tail and run like some bloody craven at the sight of your face?' the knight rasped.

Sansa felt her cheeks burn at his teasing. 'Does it amuse you to mock me so?' she said in soft tones. Blinking back her tears, she moved, bowing her head, only to unwittingly lean into his touch. The giant knight remained where he stood, his large thumb gently circling her marred cheek. The man's expression softened as he continued to study her intently.

'No. It does not,' he rasped, his stormy grey eyes never wavered from her face. In that instant, Sansa understood that Ser Sandor Clegane was not like most men she had encountered. The realization gave her a twinge of hope she had not ever expected to experience again.

'It's not a pretty sight. Even brave warriors have been known to shudder in horror to the sight of my face. Some believe the sight of it would turn them to stone, yet you do not even flinch,' Sansa confessed.

'My grandfather used to tell me; a Hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And they will always look you straight in the face. I may be no true knight by your standards, but I am no craven either. Nor am I easy prey for tall tales, or empty-headed pretty birds,' Sandor answered, offering back the wooden mask he had stolen moments ago. Always mindful of her manners, the young maiden politely thanked him as she graciously accepted it back. About to place it against her face, Sansa paused as the knight grasped her wrist.

'Save the mask for the bloody cravens inside. It's not a pretty sight, for true. But I've seen worse, girl, much worse. So don't bother trying to hide it from me, it won't do you any good,' he rasped, before letting go of his grip and leaning back against the balcony's ledge.

Sansa had no words to say in response to his harsh, yet sincere statement. as her eyes fell to the finely crafted weirwood mask she held. It was almost too good to be true, and yet…Swallowing hard, she cleared her thoughts and decided the time had come to speak of all she had once kept secret.

'There are so few who know the truth behind these burns,' she quietly began. 'In the North, most believe I survived an attack by an _Other,_ or a _Whitewalker_ as they are better known here, while attempting to defend my sister, Arya'.

'You think I'm so drunk as to believe that?' Sandor growled with a snort.

'I do not know what you believe, Ser,' Sansa admitted in shy tones.

'Down here most call you the Stranger's Maiden. Claimed the Stranger was so smitten with you that he ruined your face so that no man could claim you. Some even believe that any man who saw it would turn into stone,' Sandor said in disgust. 'The more pious fools believe the Maiden cursed you out of jealousy. Or believe the gods are punishing you for your vanity. Any buggering half-wit knows it's all a load of shit,' he rasped.

'Your Northern folk, are made of firmer stuff than their southron neighbours, I'll give them that,' the knight added with a hint of admiration in his voice. 'But you're a little bird, born to wolves, and now in the midst of lions. You don't belong here. You want to honour your people and your family, so you do what you must.'

His constant honesty was unexpected, if not a little unnerving. As she studied him in the darkness, Sansa wondered if the knight knew that he was the first person who truly understood how she felt. 'You are like no man I have ever met, Ser Sandor,' she admitted. 'Where most would have tried to woo me, or feed me empty flatteries, you have instead chosen honesty; for that I thank-you,' she said in sincere tones. The knight said not a word; it was not necessary. The silence that fell between them then was peaceful, and calm; a sharp contrast to the boisterous songs the bards sang back inside the great hall.

'Ser Sandor of the Hounds, why do _you_ wish to call Winterfell your home?' Sansa asked in hushed tones, as though fearing her voice would break the reverie.

The giant knight breathed a heavy sigh as he moved to steal a drink from his goblet only to discover it was empty. With a shy look, Sansa offered her own goblet, for she had no intention of drinking it further. With a sheepish smile he accepted the unspoken offer. As his calloused hand brushed against her slender fingers, they held one another's gaze. In that moment, so much was said without a word ever spoken. A breath later and it was entirely forgotten.

Taking a long drink of the wine, Sandor broke the silence that had fallen between them. 'I am the second born son to a minor house. Had my brother, Gregor, not died of the winter fever as a child I would have had no future. But the gods, whatever, or whoever they may be, smiled on me. So I inherited it all. Didn't make a damned difference, my father wanted Gregor, not me, for his heir. Gregor was the stronger one, the bigger one, the son who would have made the Clegane name. Or so he would tell me whenever he'd beat me within an inch of my life,' Sandor recalled with a shrug as he drained the last of his wine.

'So I became _The Hound_ and never looked back. But I don't belong here. I am too honest to play their court games; too damned loyal to walk away,' he admitted with a hint of a smirk. 'If there is an ounce of truth behind my grandmother's tales of the North…it will be enough, for true,' he quietly added.

Sansa could not say whether those final words were meant for her ears, or his own. Yet she knew far too well what it meant to be an outsider, even amongst friends. 'My sincerest apologies, Ser, clearly I have misjudged you,' she softly said, feeling guilty for her cynical thoughts of earlier.

'Why apologize? You've done me no wrong,' he said glancing back at her. Falling silent they both stared up at the stars as together they enjoyed the comfortable silence that had fallen between them. Sansa had never felt more connected, or more at peace with another as she did with the towering knight then; she could not say why. The sudden sound of raucous laughter heard from inside drew them both back from their reverie and the moment was lost.

'What of you, girl? Surely there's no truth to be had in those bloody rumours,' he began in thoughtful tones.

Sansa closed her eyes and breathed deeply. It had been a very long time since anyone dared to ask her what had happened that fateful day. Though many years had passed the memory was still terrifying. Yet the strange connection she felt towards the knight enabled her to speak of it without fear.

'When I was six, almost seven, the King came to Winterfell to speak to my father, to offer him the position of the King's Hand,' she began. 'The Queen was there as was her children, Joffrey and Myrcella. Tommen had not yet been born. They were also there to discuss an arrangement of marriage between Prince Joffrey's and myself when we both came of age.'

'Two days after his majesty's arrival, The King, his bannermen and my father departed for the hunt; winter was coming and the boars were in mid-migration,' Sansa paused, uncertain how to continue. Sandor had openly admitted to being loyal to the Lannisters, reason enough to keep silent. Yet there was something about him that prompted, demanded even, that she speak the truth.

'One morning, I heard my sister crying and screaming like I've never heard her before. As a babe of three, Arya was always getting into all sorts of trouble. Not even Old Nan, with her unnatural ability of always knowing what we were up to, could keep both eyes on her.'

'Fearing my sister had hurt herself, or was in some sort of danger, I ran to see what was wrong-' Fighting back unshed tears, Sansa struggled to bury the chilling fear that always consumed her thoughts whenever she was haunted by the memory. Straightening the nonexistent creases of her gown, so as to hide her shaking hands the young woman continued. 'That was when… when I saw the young prince…beating Arya with one of our brother's wooden toys.'

The words caught in her throat, as she choked back a sob. Glancing away, the young woman continued; her voice little more than a whisper. 'My sweet sister was no longer moving, and there was blood, so much blood, and I—I don't know how I did it, I never could have done it now, but I was so scared for her…'

In her mind's eye, Sansa was back in the nursery again. She could still see Arya's lifeless form of lying still on the floor twisted about like a limp rag doll. There were dark rivers of blood trickling from her brow and her nose, a puddle forming beneath her head. Her skin once so rosy now had turned pale and ashen; a sharp contrast to the angry welts that decorated her cheeks and throat. It took all Sansa's strength to keep her voice from wavering and the tears from her eyes.

'I did the only thing I could think of—I pulled him off her, and pushed him away as hard as I could. He lost his balance and fell back hitting his head hard against the corner of a wooden table.'

'Then everything happened so very fast. Terrified my sister was lost, I screamed for my mother, for the maester, for anyone to save her. Furious, the prince grabbed me by my hair and pulled me away from Arya. Frantically I struggled and fought but it was no use, he was far too angry, and far too strong. Hissing curses, he dragged me to the back of the room to where the brazier's fires burned. Placing my face into the fire he held me while I screamed and screamed…' Her voice, barely audible wavered then trailed off. Sometimes she could still feel the phantom heat of the fire's inferno devouring her flesh, while the searing white hot pain threatened to drive her mad. Had she not mercifully succumbed to unconsciousness that day, Sansa was certain she would have been forever lost.

'It was my mother who finally tore him off me. Later, I learned she had been so consumed with fear for my sister and I, that she took leave of her senses. It took three of my father's finest personal guard, and a bottle of dream tea to contain her. They say I was born of ice, and kissed by fire,' she confessed in sad tones. 'What would they know of fire's kiss? It never gives, only takes away.'

'Several days later, Father learned the truth upon his return from the hunt. As expected, he demanded the prince be duly punished, and banished from Winterfell, never to return. Had Prince Joffrey been a grown man, I think my lord father would have put him to the sword. But he was still a young boy, and in the North we do not condone such actions.'

In the dim light that shone out from the great hall Sansa could see that Ser Sandor was considering her words carefully. She could not blame him for she knew the knight most likely had heard a very different story. As if reading her thoughts he spoke. 'The Queen's brother claimed Prince Joffrey saved you. Something about your bed linens catching fire,' he rasped. 'Never did add up. Far as I can tell, that little shit cares about no one but himself.'

Sansa could only smile sadly to his words. 'In his defence, Ser Jaime was with the King on the hunt so how was he to know? Who were they to believe? My mother spoke true, but she had been sedated with dream tea so her words held no weight with the King and his Queen, whom heard a very different story from their son. Arya was too young to speak of the events, and her wounds having mostly healed left little evidence of the damage done to her. And I…I was so badly burned, and in such pain that even with milk of the poppy, I could not even sleep; much less speak in a coherent fashion. So our maester gave me ointments while Prince Joffrey was rewarded by his mother for his _bravery._ My father, he was never able to...his kinship with King Robert, whatever it may have been, it died that day.' Sansa did not dare openly admit that her father was never able to respect the King again.

'So it was this that began the Winter war,' Sandor rasped in dark tones. Sansa gave a weak nod as her gaze drifted to the shadowed shapes of the forest in the distance. The silence that fell between them was heavy with words unspoken.

Just when she was certain the giant knight had departed the young woman felt strong hands wrapping around her shoulders drawing her into his arms. Ser Sandor smelled of Dornish sour, sweat, and a musk that she could only equate with him. 'You have courage, little bird. Far more than even most brave knights,' he murmured in his familiar growl. His embrace though unexpected, was not unwelcome. It awoke something deep within her that Sansa could not quite decipher; a silent understanding, or an unspoken promise.

_'One day you will find a man who is brave, and strong and kind. When you do, you will know.'_

As she cautiously rested her head against Sandor's broad chest, Sansa could almost hear the whisper of her father's voice reminding her of dreams she had long since forgotten; hope she never imagined she would ever feel again. 'You would have done the same had it been your brother or sister,' she gently answered; he did not reply as it was not necessary.

In silence, they held onto one another until the sound of her sister's voice calling her name forced Sansa to reluctantly withdraw from the warmth of the knight's arms. Arya was visibly taken aback at the sight of Sansa not wearing her mask in the presence of a Lannister bannerman. Ever protective, her little sister stepped out onto the balcony, her left hand hovering over the hilt of her blade. Her defensive stance revealed her concern over her sister's safety. It would not be the first time Sansa was humiliated or harassed by some callous noble. Only after a firm explanation, and much assurance that Ser Sandor's intentions were true, did Arya grudgingly depart. Even then, the fearsome warrior maiden continued to linger within sight in case something went amiss. Sansa knew her sister's heart was in the right place, and she loved her all the more for it.

Carefully slipping on her mask, Sansa was caught unawares a second time as she felt the knight's large calloused fingers slip over her own so as to gently tie it back in place. If still baffled her to think a man so hulking could also be so gentle. With burning cheeks, and a shy smile she turned back to the knight. 'Thank you, Ser Sandor, for your kindness to me, but I fear the time has come for us to part ways, the hour is late and I am weary,' she admitted. 'All I ask is that you swear to me on the gods, both old and new, that you will speak not a word of what I told you to anyone. Not to your friends, not your squire, not your family, no one. For I fear another war should begin if this were to reach the wrong ears,' Sansa gently warned. Her instincts told her that he could be trusted, it did not stop her from ensuring that secrecy remained paramount. Too many lives paid the price for what had happened that day and she would be damned if it were to happen again.

'You have my word, Lady Sansa,' he solemnly swore. Even the dark could not hide the sincerity seen in the man's stormy grey eyes. Ever mindful of her manners, the young woman politely thanked him and was about to part ways when she felt his hand grasping at her wrist.

'The wolf girl can hold her own, for true. But I could keep you safe. Return you to your chambers proper. No man would dare harm you with me at your side,' he quietly rasped. Anyone else, Sansa would have considered such words little more than a mocking jape. His sincerity was oddly elating and unnerving as well. Hiding her smile, for it made the damaged corner of her lip twitch, Sansa politely accepted the offer. Slipping her hand through his proffered arm, they returned to the warmth and music of the great hall together; a lady and her noble knight.

After that fateful night, neither the knight, nor the maiden's worlds were ever the same again.

It took a month long journey home before Sansa was able to convince Arya that the famous Hound was the Winter Lord that their people needed. Another several months of courtship before Sandor realized his affections for the masked maiden went well beyond the mere fulfilment of his father's dying wish. It was still a full year before Sansa could truly believe that any of it was real.

Beneath the naked arms of a heart tree, both knight and maiden professed their affections before the watchful eyes of a Septon, who went by the name of 'Elder Brother'. Clad in a gown of deep green and cloak of white, Sansa approached her beloved with her brow free of the mask; at the behest of her lord husband to be. _"'Scars of bravery are to be worn in pride, not hidden in shame,' my grandfather once said. It's our wedding and I'll be damned if my wife will hide hers behind that bloody mask."_ The memory of his words that morning whispered in her thoughts, bringing a smile to her lips.

As Sansa approached; her arm linked through her cousin's arm, the towering knight met her gaze and gave a sincere smile. It encouraged the memory of Sandor's firm _request_ that she burn the _'gods damned'_ weirwood mask after the ceremony was through. In another time, another place, she would have balked at such a notion. Now she felt only contentment, and a sense of peace. No longer would the stares and harsh whispers of strangers wound her as it once did. For she loved and was loved in turn; not for her lands, her titles, or the power she wielded, but for her person. The weirwood mask and all that it represented had become little more than a relic of a time past; its hold over her had finally reached its end.

With shared smiles and love in their eyes, the newlyweds exchanged their cloaks and engaged in a passionate kiss, while the people of the North clapped and cheered in joy. Many hours later the newly wedded couple drifted off to sleep wrapped in one another's arms as beyond their window the winter sun began to rise. What had once begun as little more than a dream torn asunder, had become something more beautiful than any fanciful fairy tale either could have imagined. For in each other's arms they both found happiness, peace, and place where they truly belonged.


End file.
